The Country Of The Young

This morning I sit at my desk

and watch students grieving

on the couch : tears, quiet talk,

and one girl shaking.

half-embarrassed at her lack

of composure, perhaps because

the friend who died in the crash

the night before can't sit with them,

nor share the hollow shake of loss.

Her actions are left in a shell

empty of sorrow, the minutes

of her death, mute and eternal.

I go to them, an apostle,

A servant of sorrow, and touch each

on the shoulder; hug the girl

so bent with pain, I say nothing,

remembering Romeo and Juliet

is all about the separate

country of the young.

I leave them to youthful whispers,

A language I no longer speak.

I think hard for the father

who, in darkness, went searching for

his daughter, and happened on the wreck.

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